


The Acoustic Tour

by Aeolist



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeolist/pseuds/Aeolist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Meeting at a concert. AU. "She takes the train to Manchester alone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Acoustic Tour

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to scullywolf and crazygirlne for betaing!  
> Milestone celebration fic prompt from forever-as-it-should-be: meeting at a concert Pairing- the Doctor (any incarnation) and Rose

  
She takes the train to Manchester alone.

Koschei’s playing at the Manchester Arena and, yes, he played at the O2 last night (fantastic setlist, three rare songs), but it’s the first tour in two years and she’s been saving for ages and no matter what her mum says about her being a ‘groupie,’ (ha, she wishes sometimes) Rose knows that traveling alone to see a few shows on the tour is exactly what she needs. She’s got her hotel rooms booked, travel arrangements made, and no one’s expecting her back in London until next week.

It’s easy enough: switching trains a few times, finding her way to the venue. This isn’t the first time she’s traveled to Manchester for a show. It’s the first time she’s gone by herself, gone via train and not tour bus and backstage passes, but then it’s nice, this way. Nicer, even. To rest her head on the window and close her eyes for a few hours.

Her ticket’s general admission, and she’s early. Very early. Meant to be, to get a good spot. She gets in line, and there’s only a handful of people, all huddled into little groups. If the venue knows how to manage the line, she’ll get front row, no problem.

Moving to the back of the line, she hazards a grin at the boy in front of her. He’s alone too. The only one in the line who is, by the looks of it. He’s all messy brown hair and angular limbs, wearing tight brown trousers and a light blue t-shirt. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, knees bent, scuffed red Chucks pointing out towards the street, small messenger bag laying next to him.

“Nibble?” he asks, and thrusts forward the bag of crisps in his hand, then turns it so she can see the label. “Cheese and onion.”

She bites her lip. He’s got a London accent, too. She wonders if he took the same train she did.

“Yeah, all right,” she says. Takes a crisp. Nibbles.

“John,” he says, extending his hand. His non-cheese-and-onion hand. She shakes it with her free one.

“I’m Rose.”

\---

His smile’s gorgeous, and the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks are getting darker as the sun shines down on them.

“You were at the O2 show?” he asks.

“Yeah. But I had work. Couldn’t wait in line, wound up towards the back.”

“Ohh, no. It was _brilliant_ up at the front. Could you see?” He glances her over. “You don’t seem very tall.”

She grinned, sticking her hand into his bag of crisps. “Platform sneakers. They’re naff, but they’re just for shows.”

He shakes his head, whistling. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“How many shows have you been to?” she asks, extending her legs and crossing them at the ankle. She’s got a pair of sandals on. Her platforms are in her knapsack, but she knew she wouldn’t need them, arriving this early.

He sniffs. “Five.”

“Aww, cute,” she says.

“ _Cute?_ ” His voice climbs an octave.

“Yeah. Cute.”

“How is that cute?” He narrows his eyes at her. “How many have you been to?”

“Twenty-two.”

His eyes widen. “Twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two.”

“So you _have_ thought of everything.”

“Had lots of time to learn my strategies.”

He tilts his head at her, runs a hand through the back of his hair. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.” She bites the corner of her bottom lip. “You?”

“Same.” He rubs at his neck. “ _Twenty-two shows_.”

“I knew the singer for the opener on the last tour.” She looks away, at cars passing by, and fiddles with her hands in her lap. “The first opener, yeah? For the UK stretch. Not the singer of Rassilon. Though I met him… Nasty bloke.”

“You knew the singer from--” He pauses. “What, Jimmy, lead singer of The Quarry?”

She looks away, scrunches up her nose. “Yeah, well, he got me into the UK shows.”

“Thought they were a bit rubbish, honestly, The Quarry. But that’s, what, five? Six?” He meets her eyes, grins. “Not twenty-two. You’re holding out on me.”

“Well. Seen Koschei on other tours, haven’t I?” She grabs another crisp, pops it into her mouth. “And... I used to watch him play a few years ago.”

“What, at _Utopia_?”

“Yeah. Was underage, of course, but I knew the bouncer from the estate and--” She stops, afraid she’s said too much, but he just looks off into space, mouth slack.

“Brilliant,” he says. “So, what, then? Ten times? More? Just him, in that little-- Do you know him?”

She laughs. “I don’t _know_ him.”

“But you’ve met him.”

“Yeah.” She tries to keep the pride out of her voice. It’s harder to keep her cool when telling other people about it than it was the times she’s met him face to face.

“All right, Rose.” He stops. “What’s your last name? Needs more syllables.”

She turns to look at him. “Tyler. You?”

“Smith.”

“Don’t be an arse. I told you mine.”

“No, it is. It’s Smith.”

“John Smith.”

“Yes, Rose Tyler, John Smith. Now! Tell me everything. I’ve only ever met him at a stage door and he’s always knackered and heads right to the bus.”

“Well. I never said a word to him at Utopia, so you can forget about that. I was fifteen and just-- he looked at me once and I scarpered.”

“Well, right, naturally. He’s talented, but he’s bloody terrifying.”

“But on the last tour, my -- er. The-- the singer. Jimmy. He got me backstage.”

“Oh, _wow_. Is it true Koschei sneaks around backstage in disguises?”

She laughs. “He was wearing a suit and told me to call him Mr. Saxon.”

He takes a deep breath, exhaling into a nod, like there’s something quite serious for them to discuss.

“Rose Tyler.” The way he says her name makes her stomach flip. “I’m going to need to hear this story from the beginning.”

\---

“I think an acoustic album is _long_ overdue,” he says, and crumples the empty bag of crisps, sticking it into the pocket of his trousers.

“Do you really?” she asks. “I love an acoustic set, live, but -- I dunno. I enjoyed it because it was special. I don’t want a whole acoustic album. Or tour, for that matter.”

“We’ve been asking for it for _years_.” He raises his eyebrows, shooting her an accusing look. “Well. Some of us have.”

“What’s the point of an acoustic show in such a big venue, though? And the album has no _drums_ ,” Rose says.

John laughs. “I know! Never thought he’d get rid of the drums. And yeah, theatres are better, but theatres also don’t have general admission. I think this tour’s been brilliant.”

She looks away.

“Do you disagree?”

“I just miss the way it was before, s’all,” Rose says, then catches herself. “Way before. When I first started listening. Small shows, loud drums.”

“Every big fan of anything thinks it was better in the early days.” He shoots her a look, almost devious, and then breaks into a grin. “You’re just an elitist.”

“Oi. Am not!”

“Oh, you are. Twenty-two shows, platform sneakers, and ‘wasn’t it better in the early days?’ Elitist Rose Tyler, that’s you.”

“Shut up,” she says, and nudges him in the arm with her shoulder.

“We can’t all be old timers like you.”

“Mmm, but you can _learn_ from old timers like me.”

He turns towards, her, angles his knees until one bony knee cap is pressed against the side of her leg. “All right then,” he says. “Teach me.”

“Teach you what?”

“Teach me the ways of the olden days.” He stops, beams at her; she beams back.

“It rhymes!” they shout in unison, and then burst into laughter. The first few people in line, clustered in a small group, glance their way. She rubs her face, shaking her head, and trying to stop her laughter.

“Do you happen to be peckish?” John asks.

Rose nods, watching him through one eye. She usually packs a snack for a day in line, but between the trains and getting up at the arse crack of dawn, she’d forgotten.

“There’s a sandwich shop ‘round the corner. Promise to save my spot and I’ll grab you one.” He wiggles his eyebrows at her.

“Yeah, all right.” She reaches for her bag, opening the zipper and retrieving her wallet, but he places his hand on her wrist.

“I got it.”

“Fine, but I’m buying you a beer after the show.” Her stomach jumps. She only said _after_ because everyone knows you can’t leave your front row spot before or during. That’s the whole point of turning up early, after all, to get up front, and someone will gladly take your spot should you go. But now-- her own voice rings in her ears, sounding terribly presumptuous.

“Deal,” he says easily, and strokes her wrist with his thumb. Her skin feels like it’s burning. They’re quiet for a few seconds until he says, “Ham and cheese?”

She meets his eyes, clear and brown and warm, and can’t stop herself from smiling. “Yeah. Sounds great.”

“Fizzy drink?”

“Coke.”

His hand is warm on her wrist, and when he moves to stand, he leaves a cool spot on her skin in his wake. He’s almost around the corner when she calls after him.

“John!”

He turns.

“Have they got chips there?”

\---

“Good chips,” John says, mouth full.

“Gorgeous,” Rose agrees, after chewing and swallowing.

“Top notch.”

“Brilliant.” She grabs another.

“Molto bene!” He raises his chip with a flourish and Rose dissolves into giggles.

“All right, I can’t top that,” she admits. He makes a happy humming noise and crams three chips into his mouth.

She leans into his side, and he leans back against her.

“Sandwich ain’t bad either,” she says, and picks up the second half, taking a big bite and washing it down with some coke. “See, that’s why I hate coming to shows alone. You need someone to hold your spot, or you go hungry all day.”

“Mm, see, what you do is, you leave your bag in your spot and just go.”

“Right, yeah, sure,” Rose says, taking another bite and resting her head on his shoulder. His breathing hitches and butterflies course through her stomach, but she stares straight ahead. “That’s a really great way to get your bag stolen, good tip.”

“So you bring a _decoy_ bag. Leave that, take along the real one.”

“Or you get a mate to run and fetch the snacks, eh?”

“A mate?” He turns his head enough to look down at her face. She can feel his eyes on her, and it makes her cheeks flush.

“Yeah. New mate’s still a mate, right?” She bites her lip.

He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Time is it?” Rose asks, craning her neck towards his wrist, even though it’s bare. He pulls out a beat up old brick phone. It looks like it used to be blue, but now it’s caked in smudges of dirt and scuffs.

“Six.”

“Another hour till doors.”

“Whatever shall we do?” He slips the phone back into his pocket.

“All right,” Rose says. “We’ll play a game.”

“What’s the game?”

“If you could meet any famous person from history, who’d it be?”

“That’s not a game.”

She lifts her head, glares at him half-heartedly. “Answer the question.”

“Easy. Shakespeare. No. Dickens! Or Cleopatra. … Ooh! Churchill.”

“Churchill?”

“What’s wrong with Churchill?”

“Nothing, your answers’re just a bit…”

“What?”

“Scattered.”

“Did I say Agatha Christie already?”

“No, you did not.”

He smiles at her, hums in the back of his throat again. She could get used to it. “I changed my mind. This game is fun. What about you, Rose Tyler? Who would you pick?”

“I dunno.”

“It’s your game!”

“Well, give me a moment.” She pauses. “Dickens might be nice.”

“Are you a fan of Dickens?” He says ‘fan’ like it’s some super secret code between them.

She stops to think. “I quite liked A Christmas Carol.”

“Oh, I _love_ A Christmas Carol. Particularly the Muppet version.”

“I’d want to go see his whole era, though, yeah? I’d be more excited to see the eighteen hundreds than to see Dickens, I think. It’s really a rubbish question for me, now that I think of it.”

“No, it isn’t; it’s brilliant.” He smiles. “Dickens, in the past. At Christmas?”

“Yeah. Dickens at Christmas.”

She laughs, leans into him again. He slowly moves his trapped arm to wrap around her shoulder. Those butterflies race through her again, but once his arm’s in place, she’s free to sit a little lower and burrow herself into his side. He’s warm, but she’s burning, and she hopes he can’t tell.

\---

“I think it’s because….” He hesitates, tracing patterns against her sleeve with the arm around her shoulder. “Koschei and I, we’re both from the same neighborhood. Always felt like I could tell we came from the same place, listening to his music. Just feel like there’s something about… There’s some sort of truth in it. His music. Even when I’d rather there weren’t.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Think for me… I wanted to get off the estate. Find something… better. And I started going to _Utopia_ , and the music just… It opened so many doors. I met people. People like me, and some different from me, and I just realised… There was so much more out there. And then I started getting into other music, and traveling for shows, and I just knew that’s what I want to be doing. Traveling. Seeing new places and hearing new music. Not quite sure how I’m meant to make a living, doing that, so I’m still working in the shop for now, but…” She trails off, feeling silly.

“Me too.”

“What, you work in a shop?”

“No. That’s what I want to be doing, too. Traveling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

\---

“So what do you do, then? Are you at uni?”

“Nah. Not one for the academy.” He points his Chucks out, then up, then out again. “I’m more of the self-taught type. I’m a handyman, actually. Bit of this and that.”

“What, really? What do you do, then? Just fix stuff for people?”

“Yep! Got my Yelp page, and a rather dashing picture of myself on my website, and people call me when they need things fixed.”

“What sort of things?”

“Oh, mainly your basic carpentry and plumbing. Some math and science tutoring, life coaching, guitar lessons, basic Italian…”

“Really? All that?”

“Yep!”

She tilts her head. “Actually, I can see that.”

“What?”

“You, running ‘round, traveling, fixing stuff for people wherever you go. Like some sort of life doctor.”

He looks up, tongue touching his top teeth, and grins, looking very pleased. “Nice.”

\---

The venue is not, in the end, particularly good at managing a line. The crowd grows, roped in, but soon everyone’s standing, pushing towards the front after they’re told to move to move as far forward as they can. It’s way less orderly than the single-file line they’d sat in all day and Rose is nervous about losing her spot, and she can see from John’s narrowed eyes and furrowed brow that this is stressing him out too.

They pull their tickets out, and when the doors open, they power walk, slowed only by the venue personnel’s repeated requests that everyone walk.

When they make it past the ticket scanner, adrenaline coursing through their muscles, John catches her eye.

“Run,” he says, an eager grin on his face, and grabs her hand.

They take off, make it through the lobby and into the general admission floor, and somehow they’re nearly the first, and they settle themselves right in the middle, pressed up to the partition between the audience and the stage. Rose throws her bag onto the low shelf on the opposite side of the barrier, winking at the bouncer nearest her, who chuckles. John follows her lead with his messenger bag.

Exchanging a grin with John, Rose looks back at the stage, at the rugs scattered across the stage, the sound equipment, the row of acoustic guitars. The room starts to fill behind them. It’ll be an hour before the opener. At least two before Koschei. This part’s Rose’s least favorite, normally. She can’t move, can’t go to the loo, and her knees start to ache.

Today, with John’s hand clutched in hers, it doesn’t seem so bad.

\---

Things get a bit crowded, in the crowd. By the end of the opener, they’re being pushed and pulled, shoved about. Manchester audiences are like that. Rose isn’t too bothered, but John moves to stand behind her, anyway, blocking her from a particularly boisterous man behind them. He forms a sort of cage around her, arms on either side, and she can smell him, something lemon, and salt from the chips. She breathes deep.

When she looks up behind her to thank him, she finds his face closer to hers than she expects. She starts, moves suddenly back, and bumps the back of her head into his left shoulder. He laughs, right in her face, and she laughs too, and then the lights dim, and the opener comes on, and they don’t talk for a while.

\---

The opener’s all right. Not great. Certainly not good enough to watch on every show of the tour, but that’s another downside of general admission: you have to stay for the opener, or you lose your spot. When John gets brave enough to wrap his arms around her waist halfway through, though… That’s more than enough to make up for it.

\---

She can feel his breath on her neck. Koschei’s onstage, and normally that would have all her focus, but John’s singing along softly. Out of tune, warbly, and sweet. His breath is hitting her, tickling her ear, and it’s extremely distracting.

There’s always that one couple at the show, who paid god knows how much to get in, and yet proceed to stand around snogging for all the world to see. She’d never got it, not till now, and - wait - did she just think of them as a couple? They haven’t even snogged yet. Yet? She forces herself to sing along, too.

He taps a rhythm out against her hip and she considers biting his arm, since it’s too loud for him to hear her tell him it’s driving her mad.

One song comes to a close and John somehow manages to clap his hands with his arms still around her. Blimey, he’s a huggy bloke. Rose laughs to herself.

“What?” he asks in her ear.

She turns around enough to see his face, presses her hand to the hairs at the base of his neck, and kisses him. His eyes go wide and he freezes. _Now_ his grip on her waist slackens. She breaks away, smiling. There.

“Want to just get that out of the way,” she says.

“Right,” he squeaks.

The next song starts and they grin at each other as the chords fill the room.

“Oh my god. You never hear ‘The End of Time’ live,” Rose says, “Trust me.”

“All right, old timer,” he says, and squeezes her as the whole arena erupts in cheers.

\---

Not a bad setlist. Two rare songs, sixteen in total.

\--

People are milling about, buying merch, taking their time since getting out of there’s bound to be slow. Rose doesn’t feel any particular hurry, so she leads him off to the side of an exit and stands with her back to the wall.

“I still say it’s better with the drums,” Rose says, their fingers laced together.

“You’re mad, you are. Listening to him play that twelve string? The sound wouldn’t be half as warm if he didn’t play it stripped down.”

“Y’know, I heard he had a falling out with his drummer, and that’s the only reason for the new sound.”

“Please!” John’s voice climbs, and he rolls his eyes. “Like he can’t get a new drummer. He could have any drummer he wants.”

“God, you’re besotted, aren’t you?” Rose asks, grinning at him with her tongue poking between her teeth. He gets quiet at her comment and takes a step closer, looking at her with warm eyes.

“Could say that, yeah.”

Her cheeks heat up. He takes another step and with her back against the wall, she feels caged in again, helpless to do anything but let her eyes fall shut as he leans over her. She can feel the warmth of his lips and lifts her chin, puckering up.

“You owe me a beer,” he says, voice low and gravelly in her ear.

“What?” Her voice is barely a whisper, eyes still closed.

“You. Owe me. A beer,” he says, louder, and this time it clicks. She opens her eyes and finds him watching her, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“You’re an arse.”

“Yep!” he chirps, and grabs her hand. “C’mon, I know a place.”

\---

“The Hard Rock Cafe.”

“Yep!”

“The place you ‘know’ is _The Hard Rock Cafe._ ”

“Yep!”

She laughs, she can’t help it, but by the look on his face, that’s exactly what he wanted.

“What?” he asks, mock-offended. “Kitchen’s open for another -- oh -- fifteen minutes, and there’s Newcastle on draft.”

“And is that what you want?” She sidesteps a group of drunk men in Koschei shirts. “Blimey, it’s packed in here.”

“Well…” He stops her by tugging her hand in his.

“What?”

“I just-- What are you doing?”

“Buying you a Newcastle. What do you mean?”

“You’re not going back to London tonight, are you?”

“Oh. No. You?”

“No.”

“Right,” she says.

“Brilliant.”

They speak at the same time.

“Are you--”

“What about--”

They stop.

“What?” he asks.

“Liverpool tomorrow? Are you going?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” the word comes out in a hush. She bites her lip.

“Tonight, where are you--” He cringes. “Sorry. So sorry. Terribly rude, even for me.”

“No, it’s fine. Um. The Premier Inn. Round the corner. Bloody expensive. But I try to get some place walking distance from the venue, when I can, and I’ve been saving for a year, and--” She stops herself. “That’s what you were asking, right? Not for the rambling bit, but the first part, yeah?”

He chuckles, squeezing her hand.

“What about you?”

“Er-- I was going to stay with my friend Jack. That is, I can still-- I didn’t mean I no longer expect to stay-- Although if you want -- Er.” He shuts his mouth, looking very concerned, and stares over her head for a second, before apparently reorienting himself, swallowing visibly, and giving her a charming smile. “How about that beer?”

She scrunches up her nose in distaste, looking around. “This place was good for a lark, but do you think we could just buy a six pack and a snack or something? Go back to my room?”

He looks briefly stunned, then absolutely delighted. “Yeah. Brilliant.”

\---

There’s no open place selling beer between Hard Rock and the inn, but Rose manages to sweet talk the bartender in the hotel to let them buy a few bottles at once and take them up to her room.

She drops her small knapsack on the chair by the door and opens a beer with the opener on her key chain. Handing it to John, she opens another, and then kicks her shoes off and hops up onto the bed, scooting backwards until she’s able to sit against the wall.

He stands there, looking down at the beer in his hand, trainers still on his feet.

“Well?” Rose asks.

It takes him a second, but he looks up at her and it’s like a bolt of energy’s jolted through him. He toes off his Chucks and joins her, sitting all the way at the edge of the bed. He’d been so cuddly before. He’s quiet for a minute, and Rose sips her beer. His nerves are making her just a little bit smug rather than nervous, and she’s got to actively try not to smirk.

“Do you need to text your friend or anything?”

“What?” He looks at her, sniffs. “No. Er. I did. Already.”

She takes another sip and he watches her, eyes moving from her face down to her chest and darting back up again. He downs several large gulps of beer, then glances at her again and hazards a small shift in her direction. It’s enough for her to feel bad, rather than smug, so she shifts until she’s right next to him, her leg pressed against his, her head on his shoulder again. She feels him exhale and she smiles.

“I’ve never done this before,” he says, voice quiet. “Met someone and -- wanted to go to Liverpool with them right away.”

She laughs, pressing her face into his arm, as he places his beer on the nightstand.

“Me neither,” she says. Something shifts behind his eyes and he takes her beer, placing it next to his.

When he looks back at her, there’s something open and wanting in his expression, and he moves his palm to her cheek. She presses her hand over his and smiles. He leans in and kisses her, gentle, sweet, and she sighs, moving her hand to his neck, deepening it.

It’s different from the kiss at the show, when it was teases and jokes, mischief and laughter. This is kissing that takes its time, lips moving slowly, tongues peeking out for a tentative taste. It doesn’t set her ablaze, not yet, but it starts a simmer in the pit of her belly. Rose fights the urge to press closer to him, to pull him closer to her, and lets the moment hang.

He slides his hand down her shoulder to her waist, resting it there without tugging her towards him. They’re seated, facing each other, and it’s lovely and sweet, but they’re on a _bed_ , and they’ve only just met, and Rose’s head soon begins to swim even though he’s kissing her without agenda, like that’s the only thing that exists.

When he breaks the kiss a few, long moments later, Rose is out of breath, and John’s cheeks are tinged pink. She wants to lie down and pull him down next to her, but she actually _likes_ him, and there’ll be time for that.

That, and they’ll need to be up for their train to Liverpool in, oh, five hours.

“What happens after Liverpool?” she asks, fingers stroking the nape of his neck.

He cocks his head. “Well, Nottingham, right? Or is it Cardiff?”

“No, I mean…” She feels her cheeks heat up and pulls away, sitting back against the bed frame again.

“Oh. Well. We go back to London, I guess. Or…”

“Or?”

“When do you have to be back?” he asks.

“Next week.”

“So we go. To Liverpool, and then to Nottingham, and then we’ll see after that. And when we go back to London, we’ll save up, and then we’ll find somewhere else to go. I’ll be the very, very handy life doctor and you can be my trusted assistant.”

“Assistant?”

“Er. Manager?”

She raises her eyebrows, considering. “That could work.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Manager. Quit while you’re ahead.” She points at him and he grabs her waist, pulling her towards him and planting an overdramatic kiss on her lips. He dips her back, kissing her harder, until she squeals, and then when he breaks away, he looks incredibly self-satisfied.

“All right,” she says, “We can decide on titles later. Some of us have to get in line early tomorrow.”

She pulls down the duvet and gets under the covers, waiting until she’s fully covered to take off her jeans and her bra, and he follows her lead. She turns off the bedside lamp, and lays back against the feathery pillow. She can feel him next to her, even though she’s at one end of the bed and he’s at the other. She can’t trust herself in her knickers, not when she was practically ready to climb on his lap before, so she doesn’t go in for a cuddle, but she knows she will. Soon.

“Hmm,” he says. “Bet we hear ‘The End of Time’ tomorrow too.”

“No way. He hadn’t played that since 2010.”

“I think it’s making a big comeback.”

She lets the silence fill the room and feels her eyelids get heavy. Stretching out her arm, she finds his hand under the covers and grabs it. He twines their fingers. Her ears are ringing, but she can’t remember feeling this happy in a long, long time.

“Y’know,” she says, “I think I might like the acoustic tour after all.”  


* * *


End file.
